Revenge: The Struggle to Survive in a World Bereft
by Roanelle
Summary: The elves' time is ending as they set sail for Valinor. Anariel believes that her time is coming to a close. She is mistaken. Through a series of events an elf and her two siblings remain upon ME to exact revenge and aid Frodo. Partial tenth walker. Rated M for violence.
1. Stormy Seas Make for Impromtu Decisions

Chapter One

Stormy Seas Make for Impromptu Decisions

The sea was calm and gentle and held the ships with an almost tender love except for the rocking of the deep swells and white breaks. Waves hugged the sides of the vessels and left a glittering trail of bracken and sea salt to coat the polished, white frames. So many ships had been leaving for Valinor as of late. The elves felt their time drawing to a close. Rivendell was to be almost entirely emptied in less than seven months time and Lothlorien was to follow soon after, for who could resist the calling of the sea to bring them home?

Anariel gazed across the open waters in the direction of her heritage and a contented smile lifted upon her face. She firmly believed that her time had come, for what else was there to do? Middle-earth was surely destined to either be destroyed or to fall into the temperamental hands of Men. Any elf who had enough common sense could see that the situation was coming to a close and that they were not meant to be a part of it in any way, shape, or form. And so elves came in droves from every corner of Middle-Earth in hopes of catching the first ship to sail. Anariel herself had come from a settlement near the Misty Mountains where her hope for a peaceful time had been utterly shattered.

Saruman's arm had begun to cast a great dread around Isengard and the terrain was now dangerous and silent. Rumors filled the once spring-like land with tales of black flesh and men-like orcs. Many elves disappeared in the surrounding forests. This was almost unheard of in the world of elves for they do not easily get lost and almost always travel safely in sensible numbers. Nevertheless a mysterious shadow crept out of Orthanc's gaze and there was nothing the elves could do about it. They abandoned their posts and settlements and packed for the white shores of Valinor knowing that the darkness would soon consume their lands and, if they didn't leave, themselves as well.

Dagored and Dearthos each laid a hand on their sister's shoulders. She smiled up at them in turn and wrapped her arms around their waists as the three siblings made their way down to the coast. Many of the elves who were departing upon these ships were already situated within the skiffs, ready to reach the white sails of the sea vessels and begin the journey. Bags and crates filled with belongings, food, and fresh water had already been stowed under the decks and a pleasant breeze had begun to blow through the bay. The time was nearing their departure and Anariel felt a tug of excitement as her leather boots stepped onto the inside of the skiff. The sun was bright and the air hummed with the song of birds and the laughter of the wind. It was a beautiful day to sail and a good omen.

Once out on the ships the elves began to sing a melody of excitement and true joy. The sound was quiet at first but steadily grew louder until it was resounding off of the rock walls and creating an echo of elated and merry voices throughout the bay. Friends and strangers alike waved goodbye and wishes of good luck and a safe journey filled the air. Slowly, one by one, the white ships opened up their gleaming, sturdy sails that shone golden in the rising sun and slowly slid out to sea.

It was unlike any motion that Anariel had ever felt before, the slight, gentle rocking of the ship was monotonously smooth, yet every once in a while a large wave would break the sequence of leaning and listing. The other elves had settled themselves down upon the deck and some even clambered below to their hammocks; their stomachs couldn't handle the rise and fall of the cresting waves. Dagored sat near the base of the mast in the light and warmth of the sun enjoying sifting through all of his weapons and cleaning their blades to a pristine condition. The weapons would have no more use across the sea except to be a token of memories created upon the surface of Middle-Earth, he thought. Dearthos and Anariel stood back near the stern of the vessel and gazed out upon the land that they had left.

It looked so far away, yet the greens and browns were still visible through their elven eyes and the lush forests atop the crumbling cliffs of the inlet blew in a breeze that they could not feel from this distance.

"Anariel, can you remember Mother?" asked Dearthos.

The siblings' mother had set sail almost a millennia before after their father had left for the Halls of Mandos. Dearthos was only a young elfling, truly a baby, at the age of only 17 though his siblings, Dagored and Anariel, were 154 and 105 (respectively) at the time. They were all looking forward to a moment with her again.

"Almost," replied his sister, "I can remember her voice and harp, her quick humor and her roasted quail, seasoned beyond perfection… but I have lost the details of her features in the depths of time. Do not worry pen-eth, you will recognize her when you see her. I'm sure of it!"

Dearthos smiled and nodded as his gaze turned towards the bow. The light seemed to grow on the western horizon though they had barely started their journey, for their ships still hung within a relatively safe distance from the western shore. The sun glittered upon the calming waters and breathed an air of suggestive yearning to the craving elves. This last journey was what they all needed: closure.

The night crew came up from below deck and the shifts were replaced and led below deck to a waiting dinner. The sun was setting behind the horizon, its golden rays turning amber as it sank beneath the sea, the very vision of Eru himself it seemed in all of its magnificent radiance and splendor!

It was not long after this that the elves began to file down below and into their hammocks and blankets for the night. Ease and peace were draped over every pale face and a harpist began his melody to the contentment of all aboard the white ship. The pleasantness of the evening air encouraged the travelers to fall into an embracing reverie. The last thing that Anariel remembered was the lulling of the waves and a voice pure and soft that sung of the land in the West.

Anariel felt the electricity in the air before its presence was fully upon them. The vessel heaved up unceremoniously and any elf who had not already awakened was fully driven from their reverie now! Thunder cracked above the deck and rolled through the waves in angry frustration, caught in a never-ending battle between water and air. Lightning flashed brightly overhead, stunning the elves' dilated eyes and blinding them for seconds at a time. The crew ran around the deck in an orderly chaos and urged the other elves to remain below. Anariel and Dearthos quickly surfaced and offered their services to the captain for they had long ago trained upon sea vessels in the delta of the Anduin. The captain agreed without a second thought; he needed all of the knowledgeable help that could be provided!

Elves ran around securing the rigging, bailing out the bowels of the vessel, and tightening the sails. By morning weariness had completely saturated every member aboard the vessel as those who could do nothing on deck found buckets, cups, and bowls to bail out the rising seawater. The storm, fierce as it had been, was still going strong enough to bring a grim nervousness to everyone on board.

The storm raged relentlessly until it finally began to subside around midday. The sun danced behind the thinning clouds winking at the elves mockingly. They had blown off course and were too far north near the dark island of Tol Fuin. The mast had taken a massive blow to its base from the wind and was only held down to the deck by many uprooted mithril rings and pulleys of taught, worn rope. Their vessel would not make it to Valinor in this condition much less through another storm, should one arise, and so the captain ordered them to pull into a cove closest to them and row to shore to scout for a make-shift camp whilst they repaired the ship. The sailors, though not keen about setting foot on the infamous island but finding no other choice, found a suitable area to beach and many of their passengers felt at ease with the trusted judgment of their fellow kind. Once the order of camp had been erected many of the elves set off in armed groups to find a suitable tree for the shipmasters to cut and shape into a replacement for their mast. This island was evil and had always spelled evil in previous ages of this world. The rumors and hushed whisperings did nothing but keep the elves on the alert, their ever-watchful eyes penetrating the close, dark trees as best they could. The elves didn't plan on staying more than was necessary to fix the broken timber.

Tol Fuin, or as it was previously known by the name of Taur-nu-Fuin, used to be of the northern regions of Doriath before the land was swept under the sea by the mighty surges of war. After Sauron was defeated by Huan he fled to Taur-nu-Fuin and filled the forests with a darkness that would not sleep. Servants of the fallen maiar engaged the forests, twisting the trees and wildlife in perverse ways to serve their own greed for destruction. But the land was engulfed by the oceans of Ulmo and all of Doriath now lay under miles of salty water. Only the tip of Taur-nu-Fuin remained above the water, an island now silent and supposedly abandoned but a menace always overlooking the coast.

All of the elves stranded now on this dark island were exhausted, anxious, and thoroughly disappointed at the delay to sail West but they would be content for now. A worried look flashed across some doubtful faces. Dagored made his way around the camp conversing with officials and the crew of their ship with a frown carefully tucked into his eyebrows.

"What is it?" asked Anariel as she approached her older brother, "What is not well?"

"It is the earth," replied Dagored, "its twists and turns hint of blood and battle. See this reddened dirt here, under the grass?" he asked, and bent down to taste it, "This is dried orc blood, not more than ten days old! And the charred twigs scattered around the field... these must have recently been blown here for they lie upon grass that has not yet bent with their weight. Someone else, perhaps another ship, has been here as well. We are being watched, I can feel it, but the captain says that we are fine here, that his men know what they're doing… yet I fear that he's wrong! I can feel eyes upon our every action."

Dagored remained in thought whilst Anariel and Dearthos contemplated their surroundings with more scrutiny. It was evident enough that some sort of creatures had been here not long ago, yet the evidence was almost entirely unnoticeable unless looked for by the trained eye. The air smelled slightly of mold and decay and the surrounding woodlands were still and quiet, devoid of life and the chatter of birds, save for the crashing of waves upon the beach.

That night Anariel and her two brothers slept in a secluded area under a great, old oak and away from the light of the fires and loud merriment of the other elves. Bottles of wine lay upon folding tables as the elves promised each other the drink of their kin and the new life waiting for them in the undying lands. The elves wouldn't listen to the siblings' pleas of warning for they did not believe that evil could have endured this uninhabited island of trees and beach after so long a time. Dagored prayed to Ulmo that the crashing of the sea would deafen the cries of song from the elves and muffle their harps and flutes. Anariel agreed to take the first watch, though the captain already had men on the lookout for any suspicious activity, though he thought it highly unlikely that anything should happen to them.

The night began to pass uneventfully and Dagored, awoken by his younger sister, took the second watch upon his bedroll, sharpening his knives as he had been before though with a cocked ear and an expression of grim silence and attentiveness. The silence began to press in around the camp, he could feel it, the moon hid behind the clouds and the stars were nowhere to be found. The darkness crept in and the air became thick with apprehension. The entire landscape felt as if it were holding its breath in fear.


	2. This is Death

Chapter Two

This is Death

It continued like this for two more days. The earth grew more silent with each silvery moon and Dagored became unnerved and edgy as his eyes never stopped roaming the forests, but nothing extremely out of the ordinary had occurred their first evening upon the shore, nor their second, nor their third and they would be departing in the morning as the shipmasters, with the help of several sailors and smiths, had fitted the mast's replacement upon the deck and secured it anew with rope and iron.

"One more night," prayed Anariel, "Just one more night is all we need and we can be rid of this haunting countryside. Dagored will rest easy below deck tomorrow and we will be on our way to the wonders of the blessed realm. Just one more night…"

Her eyes glazed over into a peaceful, yet tense, reverie as Dearthos followed in like pursuit. Dagored would have none of their comfort. He was too much attuned to the ways of the earth and the silences of the trees shook him with a fear that could not be expressed.

The night's moist air seeped slowly into Anariel's lungs as her mind began to wander in and out of dreams.

A light emerged from the doorway and Anariel turned her head to greet her visitor with a childish glee emerging from her full smile. It was Elladan, her best friend, but something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Though they were only elflings and had not yet even come of age they were so close in friendship that one would have thought they had known each other for centuries. Anariel knew, indubitably, that something was wrong. His normally cheerful demeanor had drawn pale and silent. He could not smile and his face lowered to face the ground as hot tears poured from the smooth planes of his youthful cheeks. Her hands reached for him in a gesture of comfort but he suddenly straightened and pushed her away from him in anger.

"Your presence is requested in my father's study within the hour." he growled.

The words resounded in Anariel's head as if she were trying to figure out their meaning. What in the world could Lord Elrond want with her? Hundreds of possibilities flew through her child-like mind haphazardly like a swarm of bats in a cloud of mosquitoes. After several minutes she looked unblinkingly at him.

"Whatever for?" she asked, her voice lowered to an almost pitiful whisper.

"How should I know!" Elladan shouted back and stormed from the room.

The next thing she knew she had sunken onto a couch behind Elrond's desk with her two brothers. Mother had been returning from Lothlorien. Her party had been attacked. She could no longer survive upon the shores of Middle-Earth and so father felt compelled to accompany her westward. Their children were to remain.

Anariel wiped a tear from Dearthos' cheek and squeezed his forearm. Their parents had not even said goodbye. They were already gone.

A few short weeks later the three siblings had packed their belongings and had mounted their steeds; only Dagored was tall enough to ride a real horse while his younger siblings sat upon gilded ponies. They were to accompany their uncle, Eredhin, to his home in the western region of Eregion near the sloping roots of the Misty Mountains. The settlement, Stelgaladh, was rapidly growing and expanding as wandering elves passed through its welcoming borders. It sounded pleasant enough and Anariel knew that she should be grateful for her uncle's inviting embrace but she would never forget the sights of Rivendell, her home, and its hold upon her heart. Elrond was the only one to see them off as sorrow still gripped the hearts of Rivendell's inhabitants at the loss of two such fine elves. As the silver gates closed shut with a sound of finality the three siblings turned their childish faces away in fear that they could never go back though Dearthos stole one last glance. His good friend Elrohir stood with tears in his eyes gripping the iron bars of the gate in his small hands.

They had never seen the beautiful falls of Rivendell again, nor its surrounding woodlands. The sounds of merrymakings within the Hall of Fire never reached their ears and the laughter of their childhood friends faded into a dismay so black and shadowed that all communication with their former home in Rivendell had been lost.

Still sleeping, a small tear rolled off of Anariel's pale, lovely cheek and fell silently into the grass to mingle with the dirt and dried blood.

She was walking through a gnarled wood, its trees and underbrush wildly growing and thriving. She could hear a stream in the distance and trod down a gentle slope to its bubbling shore. Anariel gazed at her reflection in the water. Her pale, creamy skin blended with her cedar-colored curls and glinted in the sun. Her hands, though rough and calloused from her weapons looked soft and rather pure in flowing stream. The slender form of her body wavered and twisted in impossible shapes through the ripples.

Anariel bent down beside the brook and dipped her hands into its clear and refreshing depths, bringing the liquid up to her face with a splash. She sighed in contentment at the coolness it brought her. A small smile caressing her face.

A twig upon the opposite bank snapped and she brought her head up sharply as her sinewy muscles tensed. Anariel immediately relaxed however as recognition took hold. Dearthos, his always jovial grin smeared across his features, began to walk towards her through the water holding out his hand. Dagored, his face stern, motioned with a gesture of impatience towards her as he began his retreat to the village. Anariel grasped Dearthos' hand and they silently followed the older brother home. Wherever home may be.

The night was full of chaos and confusion. Elves ran every which way and Anariel's slumbering form was rudely awakened by Dagored's frantic shaking. Snapping into reality, if one could believe it to be reality, Anariel reached out to grasp the weapons beside her and leapt into battle without so much as a backward glance.

Her left foot hooked under the orc's right arm and twisted his face downward as Anariel brought her right scimitar in a side sweep upwards, catching his deformed face with the sharp edge of the steel blade in a spatter of gore and crushed bone. Her left foot followed through and stepped upon the fallen dead orc's back as she used the leverage to launch herself, scimitars raised in anticipation, at another of the disgusting creatures positioned slightly to her right. This time she swung her right blade in a wide arc from left to right across her chest to spread open the orc's clumsy block. As her body followed her right arm she used the momentum to bring the left scimitar around and through the orc's black heart with such a force that she ripped clear through the abomination.

Glancing up for a moment Anariel saw Dagored fighting four of the creatures with his crisp, cutting movements and above her to the right was Dearthos, leaping through the darkened trees, bow in hand and quiver three-quarters empty. Their fellow kin lay strewn upon the ground, blood soaking the welcoming earth, shouts and screams wavering, ghostlike, through the beach as the scent of exposed entrails rose into the air to choke the cowardly and enliven the primal senses of the orcs. She wrenched her blade from the sickening hunk of flesh below her and turned to face her next quarry.

A quick upper cut to an orc's left arm, right foot behind it's left ankle, and a stab with the right scimitar. Anariel left another one of the foul things bleeding beneath her. Nightmares began to creep out of the forests drawn by the intensity of the battle and the scent of bloody flesh. Wargs, or what looked like wargs, ancient and bloodthirsty joined the fray, engulfing limbs in their fanged maws. Trolls and giants fought elf and orc alike for the taste of the sweet meat that could never satisfy them. Demons and wraiths cooled the air and their gleeful wails could be heard resounding off of the rocks and cliff walls of the bay. Tears flowed freely from every remaining elf as the slaughter continued.

Dearthos looked down upon his kin with horror and realization. No one would survive this battle. Just then a troll spotted where the arrows were coming from and ran towards the tree on which he was perched. Cursing wildly in Sindarin Dearthos leapt out of the branches just in time and landed on the creature's head. With a cry cold enough to freeze the blood below him Dearthos drew his knife and sliced the troll's slow-working brain in half. Pieces of gray matter speckled his face as he rolled onto the ground, his quiver out of arrows. A pure animalistic grace suddenly engulfed Dearthos and he jumped into the fray with the smooth deadliness of a panther. Orcs fell under his blade, his hands, his teeth. Yet it was not enough. It wasn't enough to save them all.

It was a hopeless cause.

The orcs kept streamed continuously into the clearing from the woods; each one replacing another before it. The screams of the few children along on the voyage had long since faded and the breathing of labored warriors steadily increased with each passing minute. They wouldn't make it much longer.

Dagored seemed to sense this as he quickly surveyed the situation. Dearthos was covered in blood, strangled, angry yells erupted from his throat as he tore out the hearts of his adversaries. Anariel, slowed from exhaustion, breathed heavily, her feet still dancing and carrying her through the overwhelming destruction and despair. Sense finally came over Dagored as he shouted, like the captain he had been, suddenly to his siblings and the dozen or so remaining elves to retreat to the water, the only possible way out. As they made their way down to the bank, tripping over blood-smeared golden hair and familiar, pale faces, four more were lost in the constant hum of the crude, black arrows cutting through the starless sky.

Dearthos, grabbing one of his arrows from the center of an orcs forhead leapt into the air as he ran towards his brother. He drew the arrow back swiftly, his fingers savoring what would be his last shot as they stroked the blue fletching. Then he released whist still amid the air, the arrow plunging into the heart of the orc closest to his sister. Hitting the earth with a roll he straightened and sprinted down to the bank meeting Dagored who had also drawn his bow and was allowing the survivors to begin their swim to the rocky cliffs across the bay. Dagored assured them that he would follow after he held them off long enough.

Anariel and Dearthos knew better, however, and read the look etched upon Dagored's face as plain as day. He knew not how to swim and was afraid of the murky depths. He would remain as long as was necessary for his kin to reach safety and then he would attempt to do what he had never done before. Perhaps in this moment of desperation he would be successful.

"Please, Ulmo, hear my prayer," whispered Anariel, "keep him safe. Do not let him drown."

Grasping his brother's arm in farewell, Dearthos gave him a reassuring nod and Anariel took his hand and brought it to her lips in farewell. Then, securing their weapons, Anariel and Dearthos dove into the frigid water. Its blackness enveloped them in an icy torture as it grabbed their weapons and clothing, soaking through everything in its attempt to pull them down to rest forever within the sifting sands.

About a quarter of the way across the water, Anariel, out of breath, raised her head above the surface and glanced back to the shore. Dagored's bow lay snapped and bloodied atop his contorted form and the orcs paraded around the coast drawing their weapons and beating them crudely across their shields to taunt the sinking elves. Arrows began to stream through the water. Thousands of arrows. Diving back under the cover of the river's water, Anariel began to swim past the bodies of her kin, the blackened arrows driven through their spines and skulls as they sank to the bottom of the cruel water.

'Curse Ulmo and his oceans!' thought Anariel with a snarl.

Blood began to churn with the lapping waters along with her tears and drove after drove of crooked arrows.

'We'll never make it out alive,' thought Anariel, 'So this is my destiny; to drown in a sea of black arrows…'

The water, sluggish and red from her sinking comrades, dragged Anariel below its surface, wrapping its now warm liquid around her exhausted form.

'This is it. This is death. So be it.'

"Hush, my child, do not speak so." murmured a soft voice.

Anariel sighed, she felt at home.


	3. Driftwood

Chapter Three

Driftwood

Battle; ever had it shaped Anariel's life and the lives of her brothers. It was what had brought their family to Rivendell many centuries ago. Their parents were originally of the Golden Wood, Lothlorien, and had faithfully served under the rule of the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn. Their father, Hallein, and his brother, Alfaias, Marchwarden of Lorien at the time, protected the borders of that realm until Hallein met a young maiden named Anielwen. They fell in love and, after the birth of their second child, were granted permission to leave Lothlorien for the more protected realm of Rivendell, a safe haven to raise their children away from the many orc raids that haunted the borders of the Golden Wood.

Occasionally their family, now with a third child, would travel back to Lothlorien to visit Hallein's brother, his wife and their children, Haldir, Orophin, and Rumil, who were always glad to play with them and pretended to fight dangerous beasts and go on many a strange adventure. Haldir, Anariel's eldest cousin who was good friends with her brother Dagored, would prance about, imagining himself in his father's position of Marchwarden, barking out orders to his younger siblings and cousins, oblivious to the mocking smirks. The fun that they had was of the kind that they would never forget. They were always sad when it came time for them to return home. That was how it was in their younger days.

The last time they had visited Lothlorien Father had been quite stern and sorrowful and mother had become tense and silent. Even Uncle Alfaias had seemed to have lost his usual gayness and Haldir seemed, for once, was afraid of something. It was then that Father had gathered them around Alfaias' table one night and had explained to them their change in plans.

"My dearest family," he announced, "the war that is brewing in the East is at its peak, a last alliance has been made between the races of Middle-Earth and they march against the oppression of Mount Doom and the Dark Lord. I have been asked to lead a unit of elves into the battle with Alfaias. We leave first thing in the morning."

Here his voice died out as he nodded and sat down and was unable to continue. Mother gripped her chair, her face unmoving and lifeless. They hardly knew the gravity of what was going on but Anariel could feel the fear gripping her mother. Father had left the next morning with Alfaias and Lothlorien, for once, seemed forlorn and empty. A week later they had returned with Mother to Rivendell, though it was not the same without Father. Rivendell lay empty of soldiers as well as even Elrond himself had led his own battalion to the gates of Mordor. The ladies of the Last Homely House, though even some of them had gone to fight or tend the wounded, kept up to the duties and tasks left to them and Anielwen took on the care of Elrond's twin sons, Elrohir and Elladan, as they were very close with her own children. The silence of Rivendell began to penetrate the thoughts and minds of its inhabitants and uneasiness began to creep into the lives of the elven women and children.

Then, one day, a rider had appeared out of the morning mist and dew with a triumphant, though scarred and bloody, face. The elves raced out to open the gate and the rider galloped through the courtyard to climb the stairs to the doors of the Hall. Turning round he proclaimed with ecstatic joy to the growing crowd that Mordor had fallen and that Isildur, son of the King of Gondor, had cut the one ring from Sauron's hand, enveloping him in ruin and dispelling him from the world forever.

Laughter and happiness returned to Rivendell and Elrond and his men returned less than a week later. His sons ran out to greet him with Dagored, Anariel, and Daerthos not far behind. But Hallein was not with them. His battalion had remained behind and would be staying in Lothlorien for the Spring. Their mother, overtaken with joy, had kissed each of her children goodbye before she left that afternoon with four others to greet their husbands upon their arrival, her face stained with tears of pure joy.

But she had never returned to Rivendell. Hallein had been killed in the battle and Anielwen had almost perished in an ambush by traveling orcs on her way home from Lothlorien. Her injuries were so much that she was immediately taken to the coast and sent to Valinor to be healed before she took to Mandos' halls as well. By the time that word of their parents had reached Anariel and her brothers their mother had already left Middle-Earth, grief and loss etched upon her pale face.

Stelgaladh had become their home then and Anariel had vowed to avenge her father's death. As she grew older she had convinced Eredhin, her uncle, to allow her to train with her brothers as a soldier. Without a wife, Eredhin knew not how to specifically care for an elleth and so he brought her up as a son. Anariel had advanced quickly under the tutorage of her brother Dagored, her hands gaining a leathery feel and her movements becoming fluid in the dance of death. As Dagored became captain of Stelgaladh's forces he appointed Anariel as his lieutenant and Daerthos as his second in command.

Their peaceful settlement grew and years passed almost uneventfully except for the occasional orc raid and trip to Lothlorien across the mountains to visit Haldir and their cousins though they never had returned to Rivendell, the pain it caused them was too much to bear. Unfortunately their relations with Lothlorien began to crumble as evil drew back into the world.

It was a bright but cheerless day for smoke was rising from the mountains. The elves of Stelgaladh grew fearful and apprehensive. What was this new devilry? No explanation had come until two days later. Dwarves, broken, weary, and covered in dust, were sighted coming down from the mountain toward their settlement. The elves muttered in disgust at the creatures, hating them for reasons no one could remember but they were in need of help. They're eyes flashed with a fear so intense it drove forever in the elves' minds. Fire, they had said it was. A fire that moved in black shadow and had wrought destruction through their halls. The great realm of Moria was no more. The darkness, though perceived to have disappeared, had enveloped the mountains in a whorl of destruction once again.

Lothlorien had received similar reports as dwarves had also fled the southern entrance to their borders. Not many had survived they said and a watch was set upon the mountains. The last bit of news to have reached them from Lothlorien was that Alfaias had sailed west with his wife and that Haldir had been appointed marchwarden in this dark time. Stelgaladh was falling into the shadow of the mountains' roots and becoming unsafe. Their time here was ending.

As Anariel lay curled in a warm and comforting blanket, remembering all of this, a salty breeze blew lightly over her face. Anariel's eyes suddenly snapped open as her thoughts lingered upon her last battle in which Dagored and Daerthos had fallen, and she had thought that she had as well. Shaking all thoughts of her past out of her mind, Anariel gazed around her, silently wondering where she was.

'This cannot be Mandos' halls for I hear the sea and the call of birds and other living things,' she thought, 'so then… am I still alive?'

The thing that was most strange to her from this position was the gentle rocking feeling that seemed so recently familiar. It was either early morning or late afternoon as the sun was sitting upon the horizon but Anariel knew not her location and could therefore not pinpoint the exact time of the day. Over the next quarter of an hour however it became clear that the sun was setting and that night was falling quickly. Sitting up with a groan as her body, still covered in dried blood and bruises from the battle with the orcs and with an arrow still lodged in her ankle, ached with movement as she looked around her.

She was in a small boat made of driftwood. A blanket of woven seaweed, warmed by the sun, covered her body and as she shifted, crusted and dried salt fell from her skin and clothing. Other than this the vessel was unadorned and quite plain and though there was no sail and no wind the boat was moving as though being pulled through the water on a pre-determined course. Anariel, realizing that she was still alive and apparently safe for the time being and on the edge of blackness, leaned back against the bottom of the vessel and fell into an exhausted sleep.

"Anariel!" laughed Elladan, "Wait up! You can't forget to take Neal with you!"

It was late in the fall and the winter winds were blowing in from the north. It was time to return to Lothlorien before the snows made the mountains impassable. The family of five already sat upon horses and ponies but Elrond's sons ran after them anyway. Elladan, carrying a salamander in his tiny palm, reached up to Anariel out of breath. They had found the salamander at the base of one of Impladris' waterfalls and had dubbed him Neal for the sheer fun of it. Elladan then pressed him into her hand to take with her to the Golden Wood. Her mother tsked in disproval.

"Crawling creatures are not for ladies, Anariel" stated her mother.

But the little girl didn't care and slipped the amphibian into her pocket anyway with a hastily covered smile from her brother Dagored.

"Thanks, Elladan!" she cried as they faded into the distance.

The journey back to Lothlorien was long and cold. Neal escaped out of her grasp one night and she never saw him again. It felt as if she had lost Elladan.

Late that night the driftwood skiff that cradled Anariel's broken body pushed itself against the current of the Bruinen. The lights and gaiety of Rivendell became clearer with every passing moment though none of the merry noise could awaken the vessel's one passenger.

"Elrohir, I say, is that some sort of unmanned boat coming up from the river?" asked Elladan from his bedroom window. The twins had been sharing a bottle of wine with their young human friend, Aragorn, and their sister, Arwen, as they had been enjoying a particularly funny conversation involving their father Elrond and a harp.

"You know, I actually think it is!" exclaimed Elrohir in surprise as he joined his brother at the window. Elladan was a known and progressed trickster at the best of times so to have him actually make a thoroughly correct statement was a once in a lifetime chance. At this statement both Aragorn and Arwen joined them at the window to inspect this new occurrence.

"How odd," whispered Arwen, "I suppose we should see what it really is."

So without further ado they ran out of the room and down to the banks of the Bruinen.

Stripping off his outer tunic and robes Elladan laughed and yelled back to the others, "What an adventure on this late evening! I wonder what the skiff holds. Treasure? Ha! We shall soon see!" and with that he dove into the water and swam out to the small vessel. As he neared it Elladan noticed the amount of sea salt and bracken that caked its sides and confusion spread across his face.

'Could this possibly have come from the sea?' he asked himself, 'No, that is unimaginable. It is much too far and the current flows south.'

Finally he reached the driftwood craft and pulled himself up to have a look over the edge.

"'Ro!" he exclaimed in disbelief, "I… I think there's someone in it!"

And with that he grabbed the edge and began to laboriously drag it back to the shore. As he came within range of his siblings and Aragorn their sister gave a gasp of acknowledgement,

"Elladan, I think you're right! There _is _someone in the boat."

Aragorn took off his boots and rushed into the water to help Elladan drag the vessel onto the rocky shore. They stood in amazement at what they saw: a slender, bloodied elf lying curled in a blanket of seaweed upon the driftwood's floor. A black arrow, clearly and orc's, stuck out of her ankle. Her lips were cracked from the sun's light and her breath lay ragged in her chest.

"Arwen, run and get Ada," urged Elrohir, "She will need his help."

They reached in to pull her out of the mess but before they could she began coughing in her sleep and turned her head. As her hair fell away from her face Elladan shook with comprehension. He knew her face. It had been a very long time but there was no mistaking it.

"Anariel…"


	4. Imladris and a Sunrise

Chapter Four

Imladris and a Sunrise

Anariel woke late in the morning to the smell of a strong, black tea steeping in a mug on the small table next to her head. She smiled and sat up in her bed of white linen, reached out to grasp the mug firmly in her hands, and took a sip. It was delicious and enticing. The aroma cleared her mind and the liquid quenched her thirst.

Orcs, arrows, water and sand, swords, blood, screams, Dagored, more orcs, splashing, sinking, Dearthos, drowning, the sea was calling, the sea was calling, calling her to survive! It all came back in one fleeting moment as the mug slipped out of her shaking hands and shattered into a million tea-soaked pieces upon the immaculate marbled floor. There was shuffling in the hall outside her room at the sound of breaking ceramic and a familiar being quickly opened the door and ran to her side.

Her face lit up in shock and joy and disbelief.

"Elrond…" was all she could say before his strong, half-elven arms encircled her tightly as she simply sat in shock.

"My child," he said, his voice tender and thick as honey, "wherever have you come from?"

Anariel had no answer and instead remained in Elrond's arms for quite some time until she stopped trembling enough to raise her head and look at him. There were no tears staining the pale plains of her face, only an impenetrable sorrow resided in her eyes, unable to produce tears because there were none left to cry, they were lost in the bottom of a sunken driftwood vessel. The Lord of Rivendell cupped her face gently in his hand and stared into her unwavering gaze. He could not begin to comprehend the complexity of the situation, the unnerving battle, that this child, though now a young woman, who had once lived in his halls, had been through. Knowing that Anariel needed time to come to terms with her experiences, whatever they may have been, he gave her a gentle smile and kissed her forehead.

"Welcome back, child. Welcome home," he whispered.

With that said he gently disentangled himself from her stiff arms and crossed the silent room to grab a towel.

Anariel watched, motionless, as he mopped up the remaining black tea and then as he swept the broken clay pieces up into his smooth but slightly gnarled hands. It seemed odd to Anariel, Elrond, lord of Imladris, cleaning up her spilt tea, but she couldn't move her body off the bed to help, she could only watch. He gave her one last gentle smile, a knowing look, and then departed, leaving her to sort through all that had transpired.

For many moments Anariel simply sat unmoving on the edge of the bed, as numb as if a deadly winter's frost had consumed her nerves and left icicles upon her limbs. But she could not stay sitting here, lost in memory, forever and so by mid-afternoon she had begun to thaw back into reality as her brain started to function once more at a normal pace and take in its surroundings.

Anariel began by focusing on the door from which Elrond had left about five hours ago. It was a solid oak door, plain, not intricate as most doors were in the Last Homely House, and so she deduced that she was not in the main complex but rather a guest room off to the side of the Hall.

She was in the east hallway, she guessed, and the two windows behind her bed were slightly ajar, letting in a cool spring breeze that smelled of pollen and fresh water. By this she knew that her room was facing away from the city itself, and instead out towards the cascading falls for which Imladris was so well known for. The room contained a sparse amount of furniture; a dresser, mirror, a small chair next to a door which led to the bathroom, and of course the bed that she was currently perched on.

Surfacing back into reality, Anariel forcefully envisioned the massacre that had taken place. She took herself through every detail that she could muster. The smell of orc blood mingled with the cries of her dying kin. Faces flashed before her eyes of the fallen elves lying dead upon the sand, their hair sticky and filled with dirt. She tasted the ocean, she felt such rage, and then it was gone. Now it was nothing more than a memory.

She stood up and examined her recently broken body. Elrond was renowned as a masterful healer and indeed his reputation preceded him as only a slight mark remained on the side of her ankle and the yellow of mending bruises marred her pale skin. She did however feel a need to scrub off the remaining sea salt that still clung to her skin and matted her hair and the sweat that had dried with dirt upon her brow. Elrond had apparently anticipated this and had set his house staff to the task of filling her tub with hot bathing water, though by now it was mildly lukewarm; she found that she could care less. Stripping off the healing linens that she had been wrapped in she stepped into the pristine liquid and felt a guilty relaxation come over her head.

She couldn't shake the drowning sensation from her mind and trembled as she quickly bathed herself. Stumbling out from the tub of water she shivered in the cool breeze but did nothing but let the wind dry her body. She stood there for some time staring at the clear water and her reflection that lay within.

With a resigned sigh she brought herself out of her trance and continued the process of usual morning rituals. When she at last found herself dressed in new, soft green leggings, a beautiful orchid colored tunic cinched with a slender silver belt, and her own worn leather boots, she noticed her weapons lying across the room. Her twin scimitars lay side-by-side next to her three daggers and bow. Rust had already grown on them in some places aided by the crusting salt that clung to the steel edges. She rummaged through her pouch until she came across her sharpening stone and a leather strap. She curled her legs as she sat upon the floor and set to work.

The salt came off quite easily as it crumbled under her touch to fall to the floor. The rust, however, was more difficult. It took a while for efforts to even begin showing a sign of effectiveness. It was sunset before she had finished. As the light of the setting sun reflected off the now clear and cold weapons Anariel stood. She shook the last of the salt from her bow and reached for the rest of her equipment. Elrond, she presumed, had left her quiver next to a thick pile of new arrows. Smiling, she reached out and put the daggers back in place (one in each boot and the larger in a sheath on her belt), but she left the scimitars and the bow upon her bed. This was Imladris and she was certain that she would come to no immediate harm while within its walls.

A knock sounded upon the door.

"Come in," said Anariel.

Elrond once again stepped into the room, a large and comforting smile engulfing his face.

"My dear, you must be utterly famished, though I must say I have mended your wounds quite well," he mused with a proud smirk, "Would you accompany an old man to dinner?"

The pleasant absurdity of the statement struck itself into Anariel's core and before she could think about it a chuckle escaped her lips. Her smile warmed her body and soothed her soul. How she had missed Lord Elrond! She walked over, clasped his arm, and gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. They walked towards the mess hall with lighter steps.

It had been centuries since she had walked the halls of the Last Homely House but even after all those years little had changed. She gazed at the water flowing off of cliffs outside the open windows. It was truly a remarkable evening and the sun glinted through the trees in a soft, warm way. They walked down a hallway to the left of her room and descended a flight of stairs to the ground level. They passed by her old room and Anariel smiled briefly in recognition. Finally the ornate doors lay in front of her feet. The doors that led to the Hall of Fire. Elrond took one last look into her eyes before he opened the door.

Upon entering the hall a stunned, yet expected, silence greeted her. Without warning she suddenly felt herself being pulled into a young elf's arms. Black hair and a silken tunic crushed her face into the warm body that held her. Struggling to see who it was the young elf finally relaxed his grip and looked down into her face.

Elladan, a jovial grin fixed upon his face, practically beamed light at the sight of her.

"My friend," was all he could muster before leading her to sit with his brother near the head of the table. Many other familiar faces smiled at her before she sat down. Everyone expressed their delight in seeing her again. The meal was wonderfully refreshing and delicious in every way. Laughter came easier to Anariel's lips as she began to enjoy the moment. It all ended suddenly with a single question.

"Dearest Anariel," began Elrohir, "from whence have you come?"

Her fork clanged down upon her plate in shock and surprise as the fact that only what had seemed a day ago she had been fighting upon the sand shores of Tol Fuin.

Dearthos clung to the slippery rock wall, barely hanging on through the barrage of black arrows that had followed him up it's sharpened face. They had, however, become less frequent as they could not reach this height. He didn't have to look below to know that he was the only one who had made it, he was alone, clinging to the sides with bloodied hands and tattered clothing. Finally he reached the summit and hauled his cramping body up over the lip of the rocky surface. Panting for breath, he looked back down into the darkness. The bodies of elves, his brother, and friends littered the smoldering field. The orcs, realizing that they could not hope to catch this one, had begun to leave the area, laughing harshly and mutilating the dead bodies of the elven warriors with their disgusting claws and horrid teeth. They searched out the lingering survivors and taunted them before burying huge pikes through their chests and abdomens. Dead women were raped, dead children were cut into chunks and thrown in a large pot held by a troll supposedly for the evening meal, and dead elven men were scalped and looted for their beautifully crafted weapons and armor.

Dearthos screamed to the wind in anguish as the orcs let loose a guttural laugh at his dismay. There was nothing he could do but watch. After a few moments Dearthos became weak and leaned over the side of the cliff and became sick. Lifting his face back up he cried out to the wind with tears of such sorrow upon his face that had never littered the grounds of Middle-Earth.

Then, before he could think of anything else to do, Dearthos stood looking to the brightening horizon where he saw a single gull land a few feet in front of him. It cocked its head to the side, looked directly and intelligently into his eyes and then flew away into the wind. Dearthos, exhausted, injured, and traumatized beyond belief, fell to the pebbled earth and into a fitful sleep.


	5. A Friendship Rekindled

Chapter Five

A Friendship Rekindled; Allies in Gondor

"Anariel, from whence have you come?"

Those words, that one simple sentence had torn the very breath from her lungs. Unable to answer and afraid of an outburst of anguish Anariel pushed her seat roughly back and ran out of the great hall. She didn't care where she went all she could do was run. Dagored, Dearthos, orcs, arrows, blood, water… The pain-inflicting images sped through Anariel's mind again and again each image accompanied by a feeling worse than that which had preceded it. She finally found herself far beneath the city of the elves near the base of the waterfalls where Elladan had spotted her a while before… and where they had found Neal nearly a millennia ago.

Suddenly she was overtaken with curiosity. What had brought her to Rivendell? Where the Bruinen first touched the sea was a long way south from Tol Fuin. Not only that but the river Bruinen led to the ocean, the current flowed _away _from Rivendell, not towards it. Something had pushed (or pulled) her to this exact place. So how in all of Arda had she come to be in Imladris?!

Her hands twisting around themselves at this new thought, Anariel cocked her head slightly as she heard footsteps following her down to the rocky edge. She turned to see who it was and let out a soft sigh as it was only Elrond and his twin sons.

"I'm so sorry, Anariel, I had no idea…" began Elladan but was cut off by her raised hand as she turned to address his father.

"Where did you find me?"

At this Elladan's troubled gaze broke into a soft smile.

"Well _I _found you. You came up the river in a sort of raft-like skiff of driftwood." Here he paused to frown slightly, "It has me puzzled because the raft was floating _up _the river! You were covered in seaweed and salt. Had you previously been off by the coast?" he asked, quietly musing. Anariel didn't answer.

The water lapped peacefully at her feet.

"My friend," Elladan began with concern, "whatever it is, you need to tell us. Help us to help you. We're here for you, Anariel."

Anariel gave them all a very shallow smile and gazed out at the splendors that were Imladris. Releasing a small sigh, she turned her gaze back to the three elves who she had loved as much as her own family. Regarding them she realized how little Elrond had changed from the last time that she had seen him. It had been so long ago. His dark hair, pulled back to fit his station, chiseled jaw and bold eyebrows that darkened his grey eyes with wisdom, and, of course, the fatherly presence he had always shown her. Next to his father stood Elrohir. Anariel never knew him as well as she did Elladan but she had liked him nonetheless. His dark hair, almost exactly like his father's, was pulled back in a plain, leather strap. He had grown considerably and had filled out into a young man since she last saw him and she was sure many ellyth would find him handsome. His eyes, however, had lost none of their sternness, in fact, Anariel thought she saw a darkness there that she had not seen when they were children. Finally her eyes found Elladan, the dear friend that she had so long ago left behind. He looked similarly like Elrohir, but with a more jovial face, his lips always hinting at a hidden grin and his eyes twinkled with the vitality and joy of his life but they also, like Elrohir's, held a new darkness. Smiling slightly at the fond memories that she had had with these ellyn, she looked down and gathered her thoughts on the battle that had led her back to the one place that she had vowed to never lay eyes upon again.

Anariel lifted her gaze and looked at each in turn. The small smile wavered upon her lips and she closed her eyes at the thoughts that raced through her head.

"It was a beautiful day a millennia ago. Such a beautiful day. But the world has no mercy and the iron gates of Imladris shut with a resounding clang behind my back as we followed Eredhin back to Stelgaladh…" she said.

The story began with Isengard, her training and way of life, and the station that her and her brothers had gained. Then she told of the growing darkness, the smoke from the mountains and the passing of the dwarves through their village. The described the disappearances and slaughters. The woods had become unsafe. She described the final decision to leave with her brothers for Valinor (at this Elladan's face sank a little more at the thought that they would have left without even sending a letter saying good-bye)… and then her voice lifted into song:

The rain came, the lightening struck,

Darkness threw the sea amuck.

The orcs came, their blades slew elves,

Blood sank through to sandy delves.

She knew no more, her eyes went dark,

A weight upon her heart to mark.

Anariel's voice had gone numb with pain as she finished what little she could tell of the bloodbath that had taken the lives of her brothers and their kin. Pausing a moment to let it sink in to the twins and their peredhil father, she stared, stony-faced, at the bubbling waterfalls. At last she could stand the silence no longer and looked up.

"Elrond," she whispered, desperate to flee and to rediscover this world that she had almost lost, "may I once again familiarize myself with Imladris?"

Looking up from his thoughts he gently smiled up at her, "Of course, my child, this is, after all, your home."

"Home…" she whispered.

She had come home. It was amusing, all these years she had been running away from the one place where she truly belonged. With a musing sigh she bowed slightly and began to walk along the shoreline.

_Where do I go from here? _she wondered. Everything was a blur, though a familiar blur. The streets were the same, the trees had only grown older and more magnificent, and the faces, though looking upon her with much curiosity and pity, had not lost their sense of familiarity. What found their way into her perceptions more so than anything else as she wove her way through the streets of the Last Homely House were the smells: warm bread, lavender, worked steel, clay, and of course, the fresh, green scent of the surrounding woodland waterfalls. Wistfully, Anariel had found her way back to her room and scooped up her weapons strapping the scimitars securely in place and slinging the bow and arrows across her back. She set out again in the opposite direction.

After some time the sun began to start its descent into the western horizon and Anariel found herself alone upon the archery fields. Without even thinking she grasped an arrow from her quiver, took aim at a far target, and released. The arrow didn't hit dead center as Dearthos' would have, but it was close enough. She carried on her practice until the sun dipped below the trees and her vision, though considerable as all elves' were, would not let her continue in the dead of night. Weaving her way slowly back towards the city she looked up as a figure neared.

"Anariel," it was Elladan, "care to join me?"

Her friend, though they had not see or spoken to each other in years, still knew the cravings of her heart. As they neared a grassy knoll in sight of the kitchens and close to the garden, she realized that this was the very spot in which she had always come as a child when she felt angry or sad or just plain emotional. Elladan had always found her here and had calmed her down to a point where she could eventually talk through her troubles.

She smiled knowingly, "I'm sorry, mellonin, but you cannot talk me through this one."

"I would certainly like to try," was all that he replied and suddenly sat down expectantly in front of her.

Sighing, she reluctantly took her place before him and began to childishly pick at the grass beneath her legs. Her gaze diverted to the ground.

"Why did you never come back? No letters, no messengers, no word of you…" he began.

"Because, Elladan," she cut in, "I was young. My father was murdered and my mother was defiled and broken. They left us. I suppose Rivendell held memories that I thought I could not face. The Darkness has taken everything from me. My family, my home, and my hope." Her face then took on an angry visage as her voice raised into a crescendo, "You wouldn't understand. What can he do to you Elladan? Within the walls of Imladris, safe and sound, what has he ever taken from you?!"

Elladan patiently looked up at the stars, though his eyes fumed.

"He has taken much from me, Anariel," he whispered.

Her embarrassed and concerned eyes bore into his face as he began his tale.

His brother and he had joined the Rangers of the north for a time, both to quell their youthful battle lust and to increase their prowess at slaying orcs, demons, and the like. One day they and their company were to meet up with a traveling party of elves on their way to Mirkwood; the twins' mother was a part of the caravan. By the time that they had arrived the travelers were under attack by a band of orcs that outmatched what defenses they had. Filled with a rage unknown to the twins before then, they charged ruthlessly into the fray and viciously murdered every one of the foul creatures, but by the time they had secured the group their mother had sustained many injuries. Elladan, too sickened by the sight of her broken and twisted body, wept openly as they bore her onto Elrohir's horse and made swiftly back for Rivendell. She had been defiled, slashed, and cut so many times it was a miracle that she was still alive. Elrond, though he had healed her through his wondrous talents and his great love for her, could not heal her mind.

"You don't know what it's like watching someone you love die from the inside out," said Elladan. "She stared out the windows with a hunger for the trees and the grass beneath her feet but she wouldn't leave her room for fear. We slowly watched as she withered away. Near the end she could barely speak and had lost sight of this world."

Elrond could not convince her to stay in this world any longer. She left as soon as she was able for the white shores of Valinor.

"And so we have been traveling with the Rangers ever since, only stopping by Imladris every now and then to check in with Ada. Our hatred for orcs consumes us, devouring the innocence we once held as children, but I suppose that is how one grows up, when they see a darkness they could never have imagined. And so, Anariel, that is what He has taken from me," Elladan finished with gentle regret.

"I'm so sorry," she began, but Elladan cut her off with a raised palm.

"I forgive you, for you knew not of what you spoke and your anger and sadness is still fresh within your blood, though I still wonder how you came to be here?"

"As do I…" she wondered.

"Will you join us for the council?" asked Elladan.

"Council?"

"Yes, father claims that a Halfling of the Shire has found and carries the ring of power. He is on his way to Imladris this instant and the council will converge whenever he is ready. I would hope to see you there. Your wisdom and experience is much needed."

Anariel's brow furrowed at this disturbing news. She had heard rumors that Sauron had returned and that the one ring had again been found, but she could not bring herself to believe it.

"I will think on it, Elladan, for this news is greatly disturbing."

"Well, enough of that, Anariel. Come, let us see what is left from dinner for I am famished."

They made their way down the hill to the kitchens, each feeling slightly lighter and a tad more cheerful after their discussion. As they crossed a bridge that led over one of the falls Anariel noticed an unusual murmur in the water though it faded quickly. Shrugging and thinking nothing else of it she caught up with Elladan as they neared the lights and smells of the feast that was apparently still going on.

Dearthos awoke late that same night near a crackling, warm fire. His back ached and his knee crunched whenever he shifted it around but he was generally feeling rather pleasant, though terribly hungry. A shadow to his left moved, almost imperceptibly, and his body tensed in a sudden feeling of openness. A figure strode timidly into the light of the fire and crouched down to where Dearthos could see him. Though Dearthos did not recognize the face he could tell that it was a man; a man of Gondor to be exact, as his armor depicted him. The white tree upon his breastplate shone in the flickering light like a beacon of hope to Dearthos as he breathed a sigh of relief that he was not held prisoner in some orc camp.

The man, no more than thirty he guessed, had soft brown hair and eyes that held more sorrow and wisdom than their age would have suggested. He was a fit man, and held himself with an almost regal air, though his sword hung comfortably from his belt loop with an air of grace usually uncommon among men.

"Good soldier of Gondor," Dearthos began, "Where, may I ask, am I?"

The man smiled comfortingly and replied, "The outskirts of Ithilien, my elvish friend, and may I ask your name and what you were doing out here alone and wounded? We could not find any evidence of orcs or other such beasts around you, and elves rarely come this far south. However, be warned: if you are a spy of Sauron your head shall soon rest upon a pike."

Dearthos shook his head. _Gondor? However had he gotten here? _Pausing only a moment more to collect his thoughts he turned back to the soldier, "My name is Dearthos, I am not a spy but of the Elvish settlement Stelgaladh near the Misty Mountains, and I know not how or when I got here. I was on a ship sailing west for the White Shores when a violent storm nearly destroyed our vessel. We pulled into a bay to repair our ship and carry on but we were ambushed by orcs…" He paused to shake his head and find renewed strenght but found that the lump in his throat would not let him carry on.

The soldier smiled gently and crouched near the fire to spoon something hot into a worn bowl.

"Here," he said, passing Dearthos the warm bowl, "eat this, you look like you're hungry and your wounds need energy to heal. Though I must say you're doing just fine by yourself! I've heard of the healing properties of elves but never have I witnessed them for myself!"

Nodding his head in thanks as the bowl warmed his hands and watered his mouth, Dearthos croaked out one final question before the man receded into the shadows, "Soldier, may I ask your name?"

The man turned around as he pulled a green hood over his head, "Faramir, my name is Faramir," and with that he left Dearthos to his meal and his sleep.


	6. Trouble Beneath the Earth

Ch. 6

Trouble in Moria; Waters Tremble.

He was almost completely imperceptible to the world around him. Only a slight glimmer of seemingly reflective sunlight could belie that nothing was there. His mind had been driven with darkness and he knew not from where it hailed though its call never relented. Running with an endless energy he flew through the trees and across the plains of Arda, never slowing and never feeling the caress of the wind against his cheeks, for he had no skin with which to feel it. The insistent tugging that dominated all sense of reason, time, and thought urged him ever on.

It was only when he passed by a smoldering settlement that rang with familiarity that he paused. It suddenly hit him: Stelgaladh. His home. He shoved the pressuring thoughts from his mind for a moment to collect his surroundings. _However had he come by here? _As he paused for a moment the memories of his recent past began to filter through his troubled conscience until he felt that he could no longer ignore the calling of the darkness and so he sped off again through the trees.

His essence, pure spirit for he knew his body to be dead, found itself, eventually, in the bowels of the Misty Mountains amid the moist roots of the silent earth. Adjusting his gaze but more sensing his surroundings than actually seeing them, he waited, knowing that his purpose would be revealed to him in time, for his sense of time, now seemingly more endless than even the lifespan of elves, calmed his curiosity. The only thing that troubled his countenance was the fact that his soul yearned to fly to the Halls of Mandos and, for some odd and terrifying reason, his soul could not set off with the gulls to the Halls. He had heard the voice of Mandos calling to him, but a greater weight compelled him to remain here upon this earth.

A light erupted some fifty meters away, almost blinding him in the impenetrable shadow. As the light drew closer he began to make out the being to whom the light belonged. A balrog of Morgoth! Staring, stunned in disbelief, the elven spirit could only shake his head in denial. The monstrosity drew near, a smile playing upon its blackened lips at the spirit's obvious distress.

"Dagored," it called, its voice like a grating landslide, "Captain of Stelgaladh's forces, a title that has indeed been heard over the centuries. Your prowess is renowned. We are so very glad to see you…"

Dagored's soul shifted uneasily in the firelight. _This beast knew his name_. And as the balrog muttered it again under his breath he could feel his strength quickly sapping, leaving him vulnerable to the fiery beast. Trying to flee down into the darkness, the laughter of the balrog filled his head.

"You try to run?!" it taunted, "There is no way that your pitiful soul could escape the hold of The Eye! Now that we have you my task is completed and my master can begin his great work, the formidable SAURON!" The balrog thundered the name of its master in ecstasy, effectively stunning Dagored.

When his head had cleared enough to begin to take in his surroundings he found himself in a lighted room, a fire burning in the corner though he could not feel its warmth, and realized that he was not the only inhabitant. Eight other spirits shifted and danced in the light of the fire that would forever keep them awake and drained from their wanted sleep. The other spirits, all elven, trembled as the ceiling shook above them. As the footsteps of the balrog faded away, the spirit of one female made her way over to Dagored.

"You must have many questions, kin, and so I will try to answer them, but I cannot guarantee an answer. Do you understand?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he croaked, his thoughts still reeling from the balrog's thundering voice.

"My name is Isilwen, I perished almost seventy years ago by my reckoning, and was the first to be imprisoned here. And you are…?"

"Dagored, my lady," he rasped, "Captain of Stelgaladh's guard. Where are we?"

"You have found yourself in the abandoned realm of Moria, Dagored. It has remained empty 'cept for this foul beast and his orc minions for a long while now," she replied with a sorrow darkening her kind smile.

"I don't understand. How can this be? I cannot begin to fathom the reason for our being here. Are not all elves who fall in battle to travel to the Halls of Mandos amid other warriors, dwarves, and men?" "I cannot answer your second question, though in regards to your first, I could not fathom the meaning for this at first either and I am still not completely privy to the purpose that we are to serve, though I fear the worst. Every spirit in this room has perished in battle. We are, or once were, formidable foes, each of us, and we all hear the call of Mandos, but we cannot hope to return with him to his Halls. We don't know how or why The Eye has called us to this place and I know nothing of the will that he imposes upon us and how we are kept from the Halls! I believe, however, that The Eye plans some horrid fate for us. By the balrog's mutterings we have concluded that it revolves around the same process of the creation of orcs: the torturing of elves, but we have no bodies to inflict harm upon! He cannot damage or twist our pure souls but if he can direct us, and compel us to do his will, I fear that this will bode ill for all."

Dagored drank in this revelation with a sinking of hope. How often had he prayed to be spared the Halls of Mandos?! And yet here he was, wishing that he could find himself within its intangible walls. As he began to recollect the battle that had led him here, Dagored could not help but wonder if his siblings had made it across the bay and if they had survived the climb onto the sea-eaten cliff above. Their chances were slim, he knew, and he hoped that they had been spared the pain and suffering of the orcs' blades.

"What is strange to me is that I have never seen the balrog exude such frenzied emotion! I wonder why you are different from all of the rest of us?" Isilwen muttered, a question she thought would go unanswered.

"Because I am the last," Dagored mused, "He needs no more souls. His task is completed."

Isilwen's image visibly shuddered with this new revelation.

"Nine," she whispered, "only nine of us. Nine to match the nine wraiths of Minas Morgul…"

Dagored did not like where this was going. There was nothing he could do however, the voice of the darkness compelled his soul to stay put in this place, and so he joined the others in the darkened silence.

Dearthos ran lightly beside Faramir as they made their way with the rest of the Gondorian soldiers up from the delta of the River Anduin, south of Ithilien. Faramir and his men had been scouting the tribes of southern men as word had reached Minas Tirith of unrest and preparations for battle in the south. These rumors had proved true and now they hurried with all speed back to Gondor to report the upheaval of the wicked men to the Steward. War was becoming more and more inevitable throughout the land.

With Dearthos' superb eyesight the soldiers had skirted several bands of wild men and orcs thus far and had proceeded, unhindered, into the more protected lands of Gondor.

As the men climbed a small ridge that led into a cave hidden from the possible prying eyes below, they began to set up camp for the night. As had become expected, Dearthos and Faramir lay their equipment near each other. They had bonded a friendship quickly as their likenesses complemented one another, their views and methods much the same, including their sense of humor. They continued where they had left off this morning in Faramir's tale of his first battle. Dearthos had shared the basic details of his life with Faramir and his men first (as was needed in his present situation) to explain his past and where he had come from, his dilemma, and possible meaning as to how he had ended up so far from where he had last woken. It dumbfounded them all but Faramir trusted the young elf and his men always knew him to give a just judgment of character. Dearthos had nowhere else to go and so they had absorbed him into their ranks among the archers and scouts.

The men had now gathered around Faramir as he was finishing a rather humorous story involving his brother who, for the life of him, could not pick up a bow without frightening half of the court.

"… and then Boromir, believing that he could actually shoot an arrow with skill, narrowly missed Galthoren here," Faramir's thumb jerked towards a dark haired man across the fire, "and lodged it straight in the arse of an orc! The _arse _of an orc!"

The men, laughing at the memory, suddenly focused on a not-too-amused Galthoren as his face shone red with remembered fear at the hands of his brother in arms. Galthoren quickly recovered however and he wickedly began another story.

"Oh, Faramir, did you forget to tell him about the beautiful Nazgul?"

It was Faramir's turn to look sour.

"Do not go there, friend. I'm warning you!"

"Oh, but then where would the fun be in that?" smirked Dearthos. "Please continue, Galthoren, for I much wish to hear this one!"

Chuckling, Galthoren plunged into an elaborate tale involving an incident in which Faramir had had some sort of rash in his eyes and could not see very well. They had been on patrol in Osgiliath when a merchant caravan came passing through from the west. Faramir, in his obvious predicament, accidentally mistook a dark cloaked young maiden (who was quite beautiful) to be a ringwraith!

"You should have seen his face!" roared Galthoren. "Everybody run! Nazgul!" he shouted in a high pitched voice intended as Faramir's own.

"Well," Faramir suddenly interjected, "it was _her _fault! If her singing hadn't been so damned awful I might have reconsidered, but when you sound like a chorus of screeching Nazgul and wear black cloaks it puts any soldier on edge!"

"The fact still remains that you mistook an innocent young lady for one of those wretches!" Galthoren guffawed.

After a few more such stories, each trying to out-do the previous one, the men settled down for the evening. Dearthos held first watch this night and left the yawning men to perch himself upon a boulder just outside of the cave.

The night was peaceful and calm with a cool breeze moaning up from the south. Dearthos wrapped his cloak about his frame firmly and brought his knees up to his chest. The babbling of the brook a few meters to his left glittered under the moonlight and the stars twinkled down from the heavens. Well, from everywhere except from the northeast.

Mordor, it's angry red glow simmering into the blackened clouds that roamed its skies, blotted out those stars. It could have been Dearthos' imagination, but he almost swore that The Eye was darting about this eve much more than usual, as if it were smirking with glee at achieving something.

Dearthos' thoughts began to lead him down a path that he had been visiting too often as of late. Anariel and Dagored, his elder siblings, had fallen as he ran. He had watched them die. Dagored took three swords to his stomach, one to his skull, and a pike had driven through what was left of him. Anariel had been dragged down into the churning red waters of the bay. He was all that was left.

The screams of his dying people rang clearly through his head. He saw the pillaging over and over again, his mind relentless in its onslaught. Orc faces leered at him through his mind's eye, taunting him and laughing as he pulled his broken body over the precipice of stone. Dearthos, fists clenched in rage and absolute sorrow felt a single tear trace down his cheek. He was utterly and completely alone.

And he craved vengeance.

Dagored knew that the sea-longing that had embedded itself in his conscience could wait until he slew every last orc upon the face of Middle-Earth.

"Every last orc… and then some," he muttered.

Suddenly a quiet splashing sound came from the brook and Dearthos knocked an arrow into his bow with such speed that his still-sore joints groaned in protest. Shrugging away his pain, Dearthos quietly stood and made his way over to the brook keeping his profile low against the ground. Not noticing anything out of the ordinary he remained near the water for some time. Finally, convincing himself that it was only his imagination and the trauma of recent events, he retreated, though still wary.

A few moments later another splash came from the brook. Not doubting himself this time, Dearthos quickly scanned the area, arrow knocked, but still he did not notice anything odd.

Suddenly an old, wizened man stepped out from the water of the brook. Dearthos drew his arrow upon the man's head and simply stared at him, waiting for the man to explain himself.

"Dearthos," the old man mumbled as if he had been expecting the elf, his voice as smooth and liquid as the waters of the ocean, "You have no need to fear me nor my purpose. I come to explain the questions that you wish to find answers to." The old man's beard creased in a gentle smile.

It was then that Dearthos began to take in the image of the strange man before him. His frame, strong yet as smooth and flowing as a great river, seemed to not match his older, creased face. The leather of his skin suggested many hours a day in harsh sunlight and gusting winds. His clothing resembled a robe of seaweed and his beard of the bracken one might find clinging to the sides of a keel. And the power, the power that this man was exuding was both terrifying and calming in the same sense. This was no ordinary man.

"Who are you?" Dearthos asked, though not letting down his guard.

"I am Ulmo," the old man smiled.

Dearthos' jaw slackened in disbelief.


	7. The Sea Speaks and a Decision is Made

Chapter Seven

The Sea Speaks and a Decision is Made

_"Quick!" yelled Dagored to the remaining elves, "get behind me and swim for the cliffs. I'll hold them off as long as I can…"_

"No!" shouted Anariel as she sat bolt upright.

The sheets twisted and writhed around her as she struggled to be released. Sweat dripped from her brow and soaked her hair. Her breathing was rapid and her heart beat against her chest with the sound of a battle drum. Finally freeing herself from the bed she sprinted across the room and yanked open the door. The hallway flew past as she bolted outside and continued to run across the lawn until she found herself at the base of one of the waterfalls. With a shuddering breath Anariel lowered herself onto the damp stones and calmed down to the sound of the rushing water.

The memories were still too near for Anariel and she had barely gotten any sleep these past several weeks. She should have been tired beyond reason and there was no doubt that she was as Frodo and his companions had finally reached the Elven land.

Glorfindel, one of the eldest of the Imladris guard had tracked the hobbits and their guide, Aragorn, who had picked up with them in Bree. The first of the disturbing news was that Gandalf had not been there to greet them in the village and they had no choice but to go on without him. Even more disturbing were the many sightings of Nazgul roaming about the land in search of the hobbit who carried the one ring. They ran unchecked until the troupe passed the waters of the Bruinen and the skilled magic of the elves and Master Elrond had left them tumbling through the pure waters that burned whatever was left of their spirit.

Anariel offered to tend to the hobbits as she felt she were intruding upon the hospitalities of Rivendell with nothing to provide in exchange. The elves had reassured her that this was not the case but the only way to ease her mind was to find a way to work.

Gandalf had arrived soon after Frodo lay in the care of Lord Elrond and was immediately directed to the hobbit's room. There the two males stayed for quite a length of time tending to and freeing Frodo of the curse he had found himself under.

After Frodo had awakened to a chorus of smiles and cheers Gandalf had calmed down a bit. He walked around the room and found Anariel perched among the trees of the gardens one afternoon.

"Gandalf!" she exclaimed in excitement, "How are you doing this fine day?"

Anariel leaped from the branches and ran towards the old wizard, engulfing him in a warm embrace.

Chuckling the old man replied, "I am quite well, thank you."

He sat himself upon a bench and patted the spot next to him in invitation for Anariel to join him. She did and with that they began to recount the many happenings since they had last met. Gandalf frowned deeply when Anariel began to explain the doings of how her ship had faltered and the deaths of her people. Sorrow and loss exuded from the wizard for many of the elves upon the ship had also been his friends.

"…and now I find myself here, in Imladris," concluded Anariel, "Imladris, Gandalf, how in the blazes did I end up here?"

And to that no one had any answer. For lack of a place to go Anariel had remained. She had taken to spending her evenings walking with Elladan around the surrounding forests and improving her aim with Elrohir in the afternoon. Her mornings were spent tending to her guests and helping whenever she felt necessary in the kitchens. With all of her spare time she had even taken to teaching some of the older youth her skill in combat.

Through it all the days passed as everyone anticipated the arrival of the council members. The great council was to convene tomorrow and still several members were missing. Either way, they could not put this off any longer. Dwarves had camped outside the gates along with men. They dared not sleep within the confines of the House though rooms and hospitality was offered if a little coldly. Anariel had still not answered Elladan as to her position on attending the council.

"I just don't understand," he said with exasperation. "It is going to be the deciding factor in this coming war. What to do with the ring! The ring of power, Anariel! It must be destroyed but you know that won't be a unanimous decision. We need you there."

"You do not need me, Elladan," she answered. "You only want me there to even out the odds…"

"Nay," he replied, taken aback, "I want you there because you are experienced and you have your own story to tell. They must know about Tol Fuin. If more places of past darkness have survived all this time without word you could bring caution to hundreds if not thousands of people and save many lives of those who are too ignorant to see what is before their faces. Please…"

"I will think on it," she had replied.

Now she found herself in that same predicament that she had been trying to forget since she had heard about it. It was hard to recount her sad tale to people that she was close to. It would be even worse to recount it to strangers, however interested and listening.

The waterfall pounded into the shallow pools below as Anariel dug herself back into the present. _'Should I go to the council tomorrow?'_ she asked herself.

"Yes," replied a soothing soprano.

Whirling about Anariel stopped dead and crouched low in a position of attack.

"Please," said the being who now stood in front of her, "do not be alarmed. I seek you out in peace and to guide you."

Anariel, wary of the unknown, stepped forward cautiously until she could see the being illuminated in the light of a crescent moon. She appeared as a young woman though her eyes spoke of a being who had seen the creation of time. She was wearing only a slim grey-blue cloak the color of a sea during a storm. The edges of her cloak danced around her luminescent legs in a breeze that could not be heard or felt. Finally focusing on the lady's face Anariel found a sorrowful smile that spoke words without anything being said. The elf found herself drawn to this being but was still to apprehensive to draw near.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The lady replied in kind, "I am Uinen, wife of Ossë, willing maiar to Ulmo of the Sea."

"My lady!" exclaimed Anariel, and she lowered herself before this mighty being.

"Please," said Uinen, "do not flatter me so. I am one who likes to speak on familiar terms. Perhaps we shall take a walk?"

"Of course, my lady," breathed Anariel, still in shock.

Uinen took her arm and wound it through her own. It felt sturdy and solid yet as if it could melt at any time. The cloak was smooth and rippled with ease and a silkiness that the elf had never dreamed of before. A calm, serene peace flowed through her conscience and shooed away her worries for the time being.

"I was sent here by the King of Seas," began Uinen, "to explain why you are in Rivendell."

Anariel's interest, already peaked, had skyrocketed beyond belief. Every word, movement, and expression this woman uttered was taken in by her enraptured mind.

"We heard your prayers. We heard them from across the sea and though my Lord does not usually bother himself with the happenings of the beings of Middle-Earth he was driven by something I have not seen in him for a very long time. He was driven by fear. Fear that you had been lost."

Here the maiar paused and a look of great concern drew across her features.

"We are of the sea. The waters that travel through the rivers and springs are all connected to the oceans and so we keep a silent watch upon this world. We have been watching you and your family for quite some time. You were always attuned to the water. It speaks to you and you reply in kind. Ulmo had begun to care for you and your brothers a great deal for no other reason than he was in need of someone to love. Your father's fate crushed him. Your mother's condition enraged him. Finally, when your ship had been beached on the island of Tol Fuin and we had heard your pleas they brought fear into his heart that he might lose everything. You are all the old man has. Ossë and I have no children of our own and spend our time mostly together. Ulmo is a part of the sea. He has always remained alone until recent years."

"By hearing your cry we flew to where you were. I found you upon the sands near the bottom of the bay. Life still flickered in your eyes and I hauled you up through the waves and into the sunlight. I have no skill in medicine or knowledge of how to heal your race but I performed the basic necessities to keep you alive. It took many days but I towed you into the bay of Enedwaith where the river Bruinen runs for the oceans. I urged the skiff into Imladris and made sure you were within sight of the other elves. I am very glad that you have survived."

Anariel couldn't believe this. A great spirit of the world, of the very essence of the song Eru himself had sung had saved her life and given her another chance. But another chance for what?

"I thank you, my lady, but I must ask a question of you. Why? Why have you brought me to Imladris of all places?"

"I know of the hurt you feel when you walk these hallways, child," replied Uinen. "Remember, we have followed you for quite some time now. Now we will get down to the real business as to why I am here. You must attend Elrond's council."

Confusion spread across the elf's face. Of all the reasons she had not expected that one.

"But… why?" she asked without hesitation.

"That is for us play but a part in the background. _You_ must decide in what feels right."

"But, but what is the need for me to be there?!" exclaimed Anariel. "There are plenty of elves who could just as easily attend and contest to the evil will of the ring!"

"You do not go solely for a say in what happens to the ring. Hopefully you will use your talents well."

Now Anariel was purely confused_. Talents? What in the world is she talking about?!_

The maiar's laughter filled the air with a tinkling of tiny bells.

"And that is also why I am here," she replied. "Your affinity for the sea and the water make you a healer at heart though you have never used the talent before. Try it some time, young Anariel, and you will see what a difference you can make in this world."

Anariel stopped and stood dumbfounded. Sighing in acceptance the maiar placed a small kiss upon her forehead and a small star shone in the light of the moon upon her brow.

"This will help to show you the way," she whispered.

Anariel opened her eyes and caught the maiar already sinking in the swirling waters of the Bruinen.

"Farewell, daughter of aearon," the maiar cried. "We all believe in you!"

And without another word she sank into the depths of the water and a shimmering light was seen floating downstream.

By now the sun had begun to rise and dawn was imminent. Anariel knew what she had to do and in the last rays of the falling moon the star upon her brow shone bright and then faded until there was nothing left to see. Not a mark left on her skin.

Determined Anariel ran back up to her room and changed into something much more presentable. The council could not be kept waiting.

Dearthos, mouth shut now, gazed into the learned eyes of one of Mighty Eru's first creations. He nodded in acknowledgement.

"I hear you, lord, and I will carry out your will to the best of my ability."

"Good," smiled the Aratar, "I wish you luck, my son, and indeed you shall have it."

The old man spoke words then, words that were not of this world, dragged up from the deepest pits of the oceans and farthest waves of the seas. Dearthos felt a cool hand touch his mind and gave in without hesitation. He opened his eyes slowly and noticed the Aratar drifting away already, his feet gliding through the water. Ulmo smiled back at him and then disappeared into the night.

As Dearthos made his way back to the spot on the rock that he had occupied earlier he glanced into the east. The fires and smoke of Mordor crawled like demons into the night sky but he was no longer afraid. He now knew how to defeat them and whom it would be to save them all. It would be a long time until he came but when he did Dearthos was prepared to die for him and would serve that purpose all too well.

"Galthoren," he whispered as he shook the man awake. "Time to take your watch."

The man grunted but got up without complaint.

"You alright?" he asked Dearthos. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Just tired," the elf replied, but he would hardly sleep at all that night.


End file.
